Sergio calls him one day to invite him to watch the team train. Karim’s at the grocery store, cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear. He’s looking at two different cans in confusion and wondering how he can possibly tell which bean will taste different from the other. He blinks at the cans and puts both into his cart.

“You want me to what?”

“Come to training. Pip won’t shut the fuck up about you and you never come out with us, so come watch us practice.”

“Is this a ploy to force me out with you guys tonight?” Karim asks skeptically. Now he’s staring at two different melons. They look identical, but the labels tell him otherwise.

“Most likely, yes.”

“You don’t know how to lie do you?”

“Mostly likely, no.”

Karim snorts and puts the melons back. He moves toward the aisle with all of the pasta and carbohydrates because at least those he can identify and make. Theoretically. Spain confuses him.

“It’s open practice,” Sergio says on the other end of the line. “We’ll go for a few drinks after, it’ll be good for you.”

“How do you know what’s good for me?” Karim asks quizzically. He doesn’t know why he asks these things because Sergio, like Pipita, never gives him an answer he likes.

“Pipa talks a lot.”

Karim shakes his head. “Don’t I know it.”


Watching Real Madrid practice is a bit unlike anything else Karim’s ever experienced. Valdebebas is a monolith of Real Madrid history, much like everything else Real Madrid, Karim is quickly coming to discover. He remembers watching Yoann and Samir practice from the stands, one in white and the other with a bright purple bib over his Olympique Lyonnais training shirt. Olympique Lyonnais is an immense emblem in Lyon, but Karim thinks he never understood the importance and gravity of football until Pipita introduced him to Real Madrid.

They don’t let him sit in the stands. He stands awkwardly near benches where the reserve goalkeepers in yellow talk to him and ask him too many questions for his liking. There’s a tall young man with extremely tall hair who introduces himself as Callejón.

“I’ve listened to your music,” Callejón grins at him as they both watch the rest of the team play five-a-side.

“That’s impossible,” Karim frowns.

“Because it’s Madrid?” Callejón’s grin widens. It takes over his face and somehow his hair stands even taller than it had a minute ago. “Don’t underestimate Madrid, Karim Benzema.”

He pats Karim on the shoulder as their coach—José Mourinho, a man with an intimidating scowl and somewhat sardonic tendencies—yells for him. He looks back at Karim with a smile as he jogs over to his team, bright orange bib nearly blinding in contrast to the white Real Madrid training jersey.

“Also, don’t underestimate Sergio Ramos.”